Denial
by now untouched
Summary: ."You'd better take care of yourself today, Spencer. If I find you on your deathbed when I get home, I'm calling Mrs. Benson. And an ambulance." sick!Spencer, slightly OOC Mrs. Benson. Some ships may seem implied. One-shot.


---

You have this ability to fool yourself into thinking that things are better off than they truly are.

Once, you got this spider bite on your arm, and when it started to itch, you thought, 'No big deal, it's just a little irritation,' even though by the end of day two you couldn't seem to stop rubbing it. But that was okay after you convinced yourself that a little itch was probably a small price to pay for Peter Parker, and maybe you'd be crawling up the wall by the end of the week.

You weren't. In fact, the redness around the bite spread halfway up your arm before you decided to do anything about it, and that was only because Socko gave you all these worst-case scenarios over the phone (and because he did a lot of research and self-diagnostics over the internet with money being tight for him, you believed them) which made you wonder if you were going to _die_ by the end of the week.

That had been the point, Socko had explained, because he knew you wouldn't have gone to a doctor otherwise. With best friends like him, you didn't need enemies.

But because the bite turned out to be nothing serious, you still have a tendency to slip into denial sometimes.

---

When you wake up, you feel as though someone dragged sandpaper along the back of your throat, and swallowing makes you wince. Stupid allergies.

That's what this is - allergies. The symptoms all add up: stuffy nose, headache, sore throat. You don't recall having allergy issues in the winter before, but people could get them at any age, right? You'll dig out the humidifier later, when you don't have to make sure your sister gets up on time.

The apartment seems unusually cold when you pull back your sheets, and goosebumps rise on every inch of you that isn't covered by your favorite duck boxers when you stand up. Perhaps Carly adjusted the thermostat - heating oil isn't cheap these days, and she's sensible like that. You just wish she would've told you so you could've put on some pajama pants. You dig out the bottoms that match your boxers because the ducks on them might feel neglected if you don't, and after having second thoughts, you figure it wouldn't be a bad idea to put on your bathrobe, too. Once you've taken a second to shrug into the fuzzy fabric, you make your way to the kitchen.

Carly is already up and dressed, and you hate to say it, but you're shocked. Your little sister loves her sleep and will take as much as she can get as long as you don't have anything to say about it. Did she have a test to prepare for? It doesn't appear so, for she doesn't have any books laid out in front of her, just a bagel with strawberry cream cheese, and she's not the type to procrastinate. That habit was broken as soon as she entered high school - you made sure of it. Puzzled, you start towards her, but somehow she's aware of your presence even with her back turned. "Morning, sleepyhead," she laughs, and you see she's intent on sending a text message as she eats, one hand holding a bagel half, the other pressing buttons on her phone. "You're up rather late today."

"I am?" Your voice sounds soft and strained, and you cough a few times to clear your throat, but that sounds even worse.

"Yeah." She turns in her chair to look at you and adopts this look of motherly concern that you haven't seen in over ten. You get a chill even though it shouldn't be all that surprising to you; Carly's always been an extension of your mother in all physical ways. "Spencer, you...are you feeling okay?"

"I'm a bit tired," you allow yourself to admit because it's not stretching the truth...much. "Why?"

"You look sick. You sound sick. Those things go hand in hand, you know," she says matter-of-factly, standing up. "Sam's mom is giving me a ride to school since you slept in an extra half-hour, and I'm thinking you should get back to that." She bites her lip, probably unaware that her nonchalant exterior is transparent to you after being her guardian for so long. Her obvious worry for you is touching, but it leaves you unsettled, too. You tend to do a good job making it seem as though you're okay when you're under the weather because she's young and shouldn't feel obligated to look after you, but you've barely spent five minutes together and her brows are already furrowed like they get when she's intensely bothered.

"I'm not sick," you tell her. "It's allergies - congestion, cough, the normal stuff. Something's in the air that my body just doesn't like. It's that time of year, you know."

She nods because she's heard numerous times from aunts and uncles and cousins about how unwell you'd get as a child once it was allergy season, and she can probably empathize with her asthma. "But I thought they only flared up in the spring."

"Things can change, I guess." Your breath catches in your throat, and you end up delivering a series of harsh, rattling coughs into the sleeve of your robe. Maybe you're the one who should be empathizing with Carly on the asthma thing, because there are several uncomfortable seconds in which your oxygen supply dwindles until you trust yourself to inhale without choking.

She's not just worried now. There's a touch of fear in that doe-eyed gaze that makes you cringe on the inside as you lower your arm and sniffle. Damn.

"You should probably g-go wait for Sam's mom," you advise her after several tense minutes of staring each other down. "You know she's not a patient person."

She starts to obey, slinging her backpack over one shoulder and discarding her napkin in the trash, and she continues to the door without a single word of goodbye. Is she mad at you?

But then she spins on her heel, index finger extended. "You'd better take care of yourself today, Spencer. If I find you on your deathbed when I get home, I'm calling Mrs. Benson. And an ambulance." She adds the second part as though it were an afterthought rather than a priority when a person is on their deathbed.

"Why Mrs. Benson?" you ask meekly, stupidly.

"Because according to Freddie, that woman has a rectal thermometer and she's not afraid to use it." Enough said. More than enough said. You shiver with the images in your head (and because you swear a gust of wind goes by you as Carly shuts the apartment door), thoroughly disturbed. Mrs. Benson may be a nurse, but she's also your apartment neighbor, and you'd never be able to look at her ever again if such a line was crossed.

With Carly gone, the place is lifeless and empty, a vacuum of space which you'd normally try to fill with music and television while you busied yourself with a sculpture, but right now you're exhausted, and your head doesn't throb so much in the silence.

Maybe if you blow your nose it'll relieve some sinus pressure and your head won't be like a lead weight on your neck. That'd be nice.

"To the bathroom!" you attempt to announce to no one - another tactic to combat empty space - but your voice is raspy and doesn't carry at all like it should, and the exertion on your throat hurts and makes you start hacking again. You don't even try to run like a superhero, but on your way there, you check the thermostat. Carly didn't touch it from what you can tell. Huh. You turn it up a couple of degrees, then decide to go several degrees more because it's _much_ cooler in here than what the numbers say.

---

It occurs to you much later, after you've retrieved your box of tissues and a blanket to cocoon yourself in on the sofa, that you may have mastered the art of slumbering with open eyes.

First of all, the last time you glanced at the clock it was around eight-thirty or so, and you see now that it's just past eleven. And you could have sworn that you were watching Seattle Beat reruns a minute ago, but the program has switched to some dating show where there's a lot of forced chemistry between couples. It's quite possible that you fell asleep - you _are_ laying down with a blanket - but you aren't one for naps in the middle of the day. Most likely you just zoned out...for a very, very, _very_ long time, and maybe _then_ you fell asleep.

Allergies made you do that, right? It's hard for you to trace your memory back to last spring when your thoughts are foggy. You let your arm hang over the couch until your fingers brush a tissue on the coffee table before you bring it to your face and clear out your nose for the umpteenth time. The area around your nostrils is starting to sting, but what can you do with your nose running like a faucet?

A small knock sounds at the door - who could that be? Jehovah's Witnesses? Traveling salesmen? You just ignore them. It's not like you can say much.

"Spencer, it's me." You know that voice, however, and even though it's the last voice you want to hear right now, it'd be too impolite of you not to answer.

"Coming," you moan like an idiot because you're sure she can't hear you. With reluctance, you uncover yourself and stiffly rise. By the time you reach the door, you're sweating, but then you open it and cold air rushes past you. It's freezing and pleasant at the same time.

Mrs. Benson is still standing there waiting, impressive because of how long it took you to cross the room. Her lips are taut as she takes in your appearance; you're guessing you don't quite give the impression of being up to par. She looks anxious, scared, like Carly did this morning. You tighten your grip on the doorknob and risk speaking, not surprised when your voice cracks. "Hello, Mrs. Benson."

"Spencer." she replies. She's never been much for formalities with you. "Carly came by and let me know that you aren't feeling well before going to school this morning. She wanted me to come by and see how you were doing."

Here, you freeze - physically because there's such a draft between you and the hallway, and mentally because having a neurotic nurse show up on your doorstep can be a little alarming when you're in this sort of condition. "I-I was just napping," you tell her because you don't know what else to say.

She visibly softens. "It's the flu, isn't it? Carly said something about allergies, but with the way you look, they'd have to be the worst case of allergies I've ever seen. And it's getting to be a sauna in there."

"I, um, well...yeah." There's no point in trying to correct her. You're tired and defeated, and you really would like to lie down under the blankets again because you still disagree on the sauna part even though it's considerably warmer in your apartment than it was.

To your shock, she doesn't panic or run off to find a rectal thermometer; she simply says, "What can I do for you?"

She's not a miracle worker, you know that. She won't be able to make your symptoms disappear, and it's doubtful that she'll leave without doing _something. _But she _is_ a mother, and there are some things that all mothers do like nobody else can.

"You wouldn't happen to have any soup, would you?"

There's a spark in her gaze. "I always have homemade soup prepared during flu season. I hope you don't mind having it reheated."

Her precautious nature has never before been so appreciated.

---

You're dangerously close to having chicken noodle soup up your nose, but as long as you keep your face hanging over the bowl, you can almost breathe. When you sniffle repeatedly, Mrs. Benson is there to hand you a Kleenex. "There now - your sinuses will be cleared out in no time. That soup's cooled down enough, I think. Careful, though - it's still hot."

It's strange, you think as you raise the spoon to your mouth, but you believe her. Not just the part about the soup being hot, although it singes your lips and makes you yelp, which in turn makes Mrs. Benson check for blisters...but the part about breathing better, _feeling_ better. It's got to be the magic of the soup that's quelled your headache and lessened the chills and made you _hungry_. You haven't wanted to eat all day, and you really just desired something warm, but you ended up with this huge bowl in front of you and found yourself ravenous.

Mrs. Benson doesn't say much, but occasionally you glance up and find her watching you, pleased to be appreciated you think. Soon, you're down to the broth and contemplate whether she would snap if you brought it to your lips in a lapse of etiquette.

"Just drink it," she commands after you've ladled out several mouthfuls with your spoon. She doesn't have to tell you twice. When you finish, you set the bowl down with a slight _clink_. Mrs. Benson is adjacent to you, beaming. It makes her look years younger, not to mention prettier.

"Would you like some more?" she offers in a tone that you want to call bemused, but you've never seem this woman laugh before, so you're not sure if that's right.

"No, no, trust me, I'm good." You push the bowl back and offer a small grin in return.

"That hit the spot, didn't it?"

The question is such an understatement you think it might be rhetorical at first.

"You know, it really, really did." Your voice breaks, though, and you cough into your sleeve. When you meet her gaze again, Mrs. Benson has reverted back to the apprehensive state you're used to seeing her in. Now, she just looks old again. You grimace inwardly for killing the moment.

"You know, Spencer," she starts slowly, "Carly was quite concerned about you this morning, and I think we both understand why. It's rare that you're ever sick like this. When I came in, I expected you to be sculpting...not dragging yourself off the couch."

"I haven't sculpted all day," you whisper. "Haven't felt up to it." Those words do not sound right coming out of your mouth.

Her nod is somber. "And that's why I'm worried, too. I don't want to leave you alone, but I know it must be strange, having someone's mother taking care of you as a grown man." You find yourself nodding even though it's sort of rude. "Is there someone who lives close by, a friend of yours who might be able to come around that you'd be more comfortable with?"

You blink and wonder why you didn't come up with that idea before. "There is. I should be able to reach him."

---

The phone rings three times before Socko picks up. "Hello?"

"Hey, Socko."

"Hey, hang on a sec, Spence." The volume of the television decreases in the background. "What's up?"

You contemplate asking him for advise on what allergy medications work best for congestion, but then karma sends a chill down your spine so fast that your toes curl, and you grit your teeth. The magic of soup only lasts for so long; Mrs. Benson left fifteen minutes ago, and you're kind of glad she didn't see that. You readjust your cell phone on your cheek and croak out. "I may be dying."

"You _may_ be dying?" Socko repeats. He sounds incredulous, and you're not sure why because you can hardly speak above a raised whisper at the moment, and that should be an indicator that you're telling the truth. "Of what?"

"Well, I woke up this morning, and I swore it was allergies, but" - here you lower your voice even more if that's possible - "I think I have the flu."

You hear Socko start to choke, probably on a sip of soda, and wonder if it's a strange coincidence or if he meant to do that for dramatic effect. You can't blame him either way; you never get sick, much less admit to being near the point of death. You probably just gave him a heart attack.

"Sorry, Spence," he gasps out, after taking a second to breathe. "That went down the wrong way."

"It's okay."

"You sound awful." His pity is practically radiating through the receiver, and something inside your chest clenches. You've made way to many people fret over you today, but putting up an act is just too exhausting. "I _feel_ awful."

"Does your throat hurt?"

"Yep."

"Does your chest hurt?"

"Mmhmm."

"Do you have a fever?"

Your face feels as though it's on fire, and yet you're trembling. "I think so."

"I'll be right over after I pick you up some things."

"'Kay." You flip your cell phone closed and sigh. Even with a stop at the drugstore, Socko won't be long. He'll probably be pushing the speed limit the whole way, because that's how Socko is. When he's stressed, he can't focus on anything else.

You should at least brush your teeth before he shows up, though, because the smell of morning breath is less than flattering. At least Mrs. Benson kept a safe distance, saying something about not wanting to carry the virus and pass it on to her darling Fredward. (You pretended to understand because that's the best way to handle her when she says these things.)

When you flick on the light in your bathroom, you get your first glimpse of what everyone else has seen of you thus far. In the mirror, your eyes are red-rimmed and glassy as you take yourself in. Your hair is disheveled, damp in places along your forehead where tiny beads of sweat have formed. There's an unnatural rosy shade to your cheeks and the end of your nose.

As you brush your teeth, you can't help but sneak glances at yourself, questioning if you look any paler than you did ten seconds ago and whether or not it's good if you do. Spitting out the last of the toothpaste foam, you figure washing your face with a cool washcloth might help your cause, because frankly, after seeing yourself, you're amazed that you don't feel faint.

Then, your reflection goes out of focus, and you spend at least a minute and a half gripping the porcelain sink until your knuckles are white as well as your face. That's what you get for thinking things. You wet the cloth when you're ready and use it to pat down your face and neck until it's no longer cool, which happens much more quickly than you believe you deserve. Nonetheless, you drench it in frigid water once more, wringing it out a little less in hopes that it won't adjust too fast that way and lay it across your forehead when you come back to the sofa and lay down.

You sleep with closed eyes this time.

---

You're in that oblivion that exists between sleep and comatose when you experience the sensation of being watched. With a soft groan, you manage to pry your eyelids open, fluttering against your body's desire to drift off, and through your bleary vision you recognize Socko standing over you. "Hi."

"Hey, man." His emerald eyes are wide, taking in your sorry state, and he does that nervous habit thing where he licks the silver snake-bite piercings in his lower lip. "I didn't wake you, did I?"

"Nah," you reassure him even though that's sort of a lie. "Don't worry about it." A yawn betrays you, and you cover it with your hand. He doesn't acknowledge it anyway. "How're you feeling?"

You grapple with an answer for that inquiry for several seconds. "I don't know. Alive. Maybe."

"I'd rather have you alive than dead," he says, and you think he was making a joke but neither of you found the humor. He picks up a plastic bag at his feet. "I come bearing gifts."

"Cough drops?" you ask hopefully; he nods and pulls them out along with cough syrup, decongestants and pain relievers. "I didn't know what you needed, so I grabbed as much as I could for variety without it being illegal. The girl at the counter looked at me funny even though I made sure to buy liquids so she wouldn't think I was making meth."

It hurts to laugh, but you do anyway, coughing at the same time to try and banish the rattle from your chest. He stops laughing after that. "Excuse me for being Captain Obvious, but you're really sick, aren't you?"

"Yeah." you murmur. "I am."

"How bad is the fever?"

"I don't know."

He stares at you blankly. "What do you mean you don't know? You claim to be possibly dying and you've got no clue whatsoever how high your fever is? That's a bit dangerous, don't you think?" He yanks the cloth off of your forehead and replaces it with his palm. "You're burning up," he breathes, tracing the side of your cheek with his knuckles.

"There's a thermometer in my medicine cabinet," you inform him, and as he races off to find it, you touch the side of your face and realize with alarm that yeah, you are. Sitting up, you think maybe that's why you don't fight him when he returns, letting him slip the end of the instrument under your tongue and hold it in place as if you were a child. There's an agonizing amount of time before the little beep sounds.

"One-oh-two point three," Socko reads off the digital screen. You close your eyes, and he senses why.

"That's not as bad as I expected, actually, but then again, I'm not a mom and can't gauge temperatures off foreheads."

"I thought maybe if I blamed it on something else, it would go away."

"Not one of your better ideas, but that's understandable, Peter Parker. And it explains why it's about a million degrees in here." He takes one of your clammy hands in his own. "If that gets worse, you're seeing a doctor, though."

"I figured, and shut up. You didn't have to humor me - I didn't _honestly _believe I was the next Spider-Man that time, okay? You sound like my mom, by the way."

"I think that's one of the downfalls of my being gay," Socko muses. "The sounding-like-your-mom part, I mean." When you open your eyes, he's grinning.

"It's not a downfall. I'd probably die if you weren't here, and Carly would come home and find me on my deathbed and call Mrs. Benson and an ambulance."

"You think so?" Socko asks, amused.

"That's what Carly told me would happen if she came home and I was on my deathbed, and I would rather not face Mrs. Benson and her rectal thermometer."

He grimaces. "Oh, ew. That woman has so many issues that I wouldn't want her involved in any threats whatsoever."

"I kind of have a new respect for her," you recollect aloud. "She makes really good soup."

He puts his hands up in a 'hold on' gesture. "Wait, whoa, whoa. She made you _soup_?"

"Well, it was reheated soup, but it was still tasty. And you know, as I talked to her, she was pretty..._normal_, you know? Happy, even. Happy to be needed. She smiled at me, and I felt all warm and fuzzy inside. She's pretty when she smiles."

Socko blinked at him. "You're sure the warm and fuzzy feeling wasn't your temperature spiking?"

"I'm sure. This actually happened, I swear," you say, and then you cough hard and loud, and you know that your argument just went out the window. "Ow."

"What hurts?" He brushes a stray piece of black hair out of his eye and pats your back.

"My throat is killing me," you whimper, swallowing painfully.

Socko produces a pen light out of the plastic bag.

"...Really now, what are you, a doctor?" His ability to think of these things is either impressive, scary, or both. You can't decide. "You're almost as bad as Mrs. Benson."

That does it. He narrows his eyes. "I don't care how 'normal' you say she is - don't go there. I'm just being prepared because your throat might be infected and I know how much you hate hospitals. I probably should be taking you to one as it is."

You grip your blankets with a shudder and open your mouth.

---

"...showed up here a few hours ago."

"He _called_ you?"

"Yeah. It freaked me out, too."

"Look, I think he's waking up."

You fade into consciousness with the sound of voices circling around you and the feel of sweat on your skin. When you elicit the energy to open your eyes, the first thing you see is your sister's face, upside-down because of where she's standing in relation to the arm of the sofa. "Spencer?" she coos, and you think about what bizarre role-reversal this is. "How're you feeling?"

"I..." You're really starting to hate that question, actually, because you don't feel particularly bad, but you wouldn't say you feel great. "Weak," you admit, and it kills you.

She makes a crestfallen noise in the back of her throat and bends down to kiss your forehead. Her hair tickles your nose. "You're really hot."

A hand that isn't hers sweeps your damp bangs back and lingers on your skin. "I think the fever reducer's worked, believe it or not." Socko's lips are upturned slightly. "'Bout time you came to, Sleeping Beauty."

It doesn't hurt as much to swallow or talk. "What time is it?"

"Four-thirty. You've been out since one."

Three-and-a-half-hours. You conked out for three-and-a-half hours, but it may as well have been three-and-a-half days with the way you feel. You're surprised you don't have drool dripping down your face. "...O-Oh. So, um, what did I miss?"

"Sam pretended to faint in gym class today," Carly starts in rolling her eyes. "She says that she hates running the mile as much as a fat kid hates spinach. I told Mr. Mickelson that if he really wanted her to run he'd have to stick her on a treadmill and hang beef jerky in front of her face, but does he listen to me? No, of course not."

"I see," you hum. It seems strange that the world has gone on without you, and stranger that the two girls aren't together at the moment. "And where is Sam now?"

"I don't know," Carly said, shrugging. "Once it was found out that she was faking, it was decided that she'd make up the mile after school, but it shouldn't have taken her this long. I'm sure she'll get hungry and show up. Freddie _was _here, but uh..."

"His mom dragged him out wearing a surgical mask," Socko finished for her. You weren't even aware that he'd disappeared out of the room until now.

"Wait, was Freddie wearing the surgical mask, or was his mom?" you ask for clarification.

"His mom. She said something about being exposed to sickness and tried to wrestle him into one, too. I'm not quite sure how that worked out." Socko stares pensively into space before shaking his head. "But anyway. I need to take your temperature again."

It comes to you then that you always tend to flush automatically whenever a thermometer gets put under your tongue, but that's usually because you're ill at the time. You resolve to take your temperature sometime when you're feeling normal just to see if it's a natural bodily reaction for you.

The thermometer beeps; you take it out of your mouth without looking at it and hand it to Socko who responds with a "Huh."

"Good 'huh' or bad, 'huh'?" Carly asks in a soft voice, and you can see her itching to peek over your friend's shoulder to see for herself what the verdict is.

"Well, it's good because it's gone down, but bad because it's still a little high and didn't go down as much as I would've liked." He looks at you and says "One-oh-one point eight."

"It dropped half a degree," you defend, and you sound almost normal for those five words.

"I know. But, Spence," - and he looks almost physically pained to have to reason with you - "you've been running a really high fever for most of the day even with medicine and me washing your face as you slept. Even if what I gave you made you feel better, there's still a chance you might have a throat infection because your tonsils were a bit swollen...and I suspected you were delirious earlier."

"_Delirious_?" You and Carly choke on the word at the same time. You don't recall any fevered dreams, but then again, there's not much of the past couple hours that you _do_ remember. Socko affirms your fears with a solemn nod. "Yeah. I mean, he wasn't - you weren't - like, seeing things or anything, but you weren't yourself. You called Mrs. Benson pretty."

"To her face?" Carly wants to know, because yeah, that would be a sort of crucial detail that said something was up.

"But I remember that. And, no, it wasn't to her face when I said it." Both of them are focused on you, and you swallow dryly. "I meant it. Mrs. Benson has a pretty smile, and she _is _capable of acting normal."

Carly's jaw is clenched like she's trying to keep it from falling ajar; Socko feels your forehead to see if your temperature spiked during the last three minutes. Due to dumb luck, you shiver at his touch. With a firm look in his eye, he stands. "Go change. I won't allow you to visit the hospital in duck pajamas and a bathrobe."

"But I'm not delirious!"

"Spencer," Carly says to you, "just do this, okay? It'd really make _me_ feel better if you went." She looks like she pities you, and if you were any more of an angry person, you'd punch something and put up a fight. But you're just a pushover, and Socko's probably stronger than you in these unfortunate circumstances, so you get up, muttering, off to find that comfy pair of sweatpants in the back of your closet.

---

"This jacket is too warm," you complain.

"Good. Maybe you'll sweat the fever out if we take the stairs." Socko's walking quite close to you even though you've insisted that you don't need to lean on him.

"I'm too weak for stairs," you counter, but that only makes him move closer as you start out the door.

You're just reaching the elevator when someone calls your name. "Spencer! Spencer, wait!" Mrs. Benson comes tearing down the hall in high heels and a surgical mask, and it would be a hilarious sight if such a wardrobe combination on her took you aback. She halts in front of you, panting. Out the corner of your eye, Socko raises an eyebrow.

"I wanted to give you this," she explains, pressing a folded piece of yellow lined paper into your hand. "It's the soup recipe you liked so much."

You can't help it - you know you have a stupid grin on your face. "Thanks. I'm pretty sure I'll never be able to make it like you did, though."

"Well, mothers do know best. If you ever need any help, or if you just want some of mine, you know where to find me."

"Thanks. Not just for this, but for what you did today. I really appreciate it."

It's like those last four words flipped a switch somewhere inside her because Mrs. Benson is positively _radiant _as a slow smile spreads across her face. You make a mental note to say these things more often because you're betting that she doesn't hear them enough. "You're quite welcome, Spencer. Get well soon." You nod, and just like that, she's disappeared around the corner.

Socko watches her go, completely emotionless. "...She just smiled. Like, actually smiled."

"Ooh, feeling a bit _delirious_, are we?" He ducks away from your touch and presses the 'down' button for the elevator.

"Shut up. There must be a full moon happening or something and it's making things weird."

"You know, I kind of agree." The bell dings, the doors open, and you step inside. Just before the doors close, however, an adolescent boy wearing a surgical mask bolts down the hallway, followed in hot pursuit by his mother who could apparently run in high heels quite well. Through the doors, you hear:

"Fredward Benson, you get back here, now!"

"But, mom, I don't have a temperature!"

"Freddie, you _know _that oral thermometers have their inaccuracies!"

Neither of you say a word. You both figure it's okay to deny your delirium just this once.

---


End file.
